Achromatic
by The Fairweather League
Summary: The term 'soulmate' is often a thing met with many different attitudes, drawn from many different people. Scorned. Coveted. Fantasized. In the end, however, opinion is of little consequence, because it's always the touch of a hand that sends the world into whirlwinds of colour. (Colour soulmate AU: heavily implied Johnlock)


Achromatic. A perpetual lack of brazen sunspots, for it was the light that he was told was deliverance, certainly not by Mycroft, but Lestrade was insistent. The television shows sported detective ads, and once every month, the local newspapers demanded love stories and released transparently cunning assertions of how far they had gotten, (Research is Close Now!) and afterwards the desperate Londoners would plant post cranes in their flower boxes and hope that it would sprout in green.

Donovan was by far the most sympathetic to a supposed plight. She often assured him that he mustn't worry, though he had not. _You're heartless anyway, Sherlock. No use expecting it._

It was not the particular sneers of the woman that he travelled with, but her recognition was a touching reminder, and it was in honour of his own astuteness that he went about shot alleys and criminal apartments, wood lodgings and bars of poisoned beer as the mundane drank. He was told by one pitying Victor that the beverages were yellow. Bisque. Chrome. Amber. Cream had been common enough in foam at the old pub, (though what went on at that grey place now, he didn't care to know) and the unmatched had liked to prod at an uncomfortable bartender that it's not _cream_ , you bloody tosser, it's _white_.

(Said bartender was indeed a married man, but he had gotten on too quickly with his wife, and when he had began to see colour in his late twenties, those dull mornings quickly filled to a bed sheet affair, thrice each week. He left always at nine o' clock. He had no cat, allergic, actually, but the other woman did, and the fool always took allergy medication at home when it was the dark hairs on his jumper that caused his eyes to swell and his nose to run snot. The wedding ring stayed off until it was time to return to the house.)

The studies that he conducted were extremely short-lived, considering that he had been seven, and Mycroft fourteen, but the microbiology of mutual attraction, so triggering that it had the ability to repair an inactive section of the brain, was a fascinating subject. Mycroft was the more productive of the two, and his younger brother had been a nosing little urchin, so it was only natural that the time came one disastrous session had ended in a questioning Sherlock and a dark-cheeked Mycroft, when the assignment become quite personal. The task was discontinued.

But it was not, after all, Mycroft's ambition to pursue a career in the sciences, and as such no lasting damage had been inflicted. Sherlock was now adamant in his refusal of the other's contribution, though the topic was not one that tended to pop up in polite conversation. It would have been senseless to throw the charts and graphs and theories in the can, so Sherlock folded the papers and stuffed them in his underwear drawer, whilst Mycroft stored them in files. The whole job was only a necessity doomed to failure; afterwards, Mrs. Holmes announced Sherlock's graduation of home tutoring.

He had memorised all the colours when he was three, but it had been only for the teachers. So naturally, after the beginning of public school, (which had been rather late for both Sherlock and Mycroft, as their parents feared both their treatment of regular children and the treatment of the little devils upon them) he had little choice but to acknowledge the many remaining hues.

 _What colour is the apple, class?_

" _Grey!"_

" _Red!"_

" _Green!"_

" _Yellow!"_

" _Cardinal-crimson-maroon-burgundy-scarlet-rose-wine-cherry-ruby-vermilion—"_

The results were rather disappointing. He tended not to raise his hand, after that.

Not much was to be learned in the classes, anyway, for Mycroft had already taught him algebra and geometry, and there they all were, sitting at wooden desks, struggling to remember the sides of an octagon. Sherlock regarded the situation with an attitude that it would have been cruel to simply keep the lot struggling, but, unfortunately, his help generally brought about tears or clumsy and blind blows at the arm or head. Carl Powers became particularly violent when the subject of his medication was mentioned, if even in a purely factual, unmocking manner. Past bullying, a sore spot. He never left permanent marks.

Next came secondary school, which passed quickly, (the students had taken on shagging and cigarettes; the nicotine was very addictive) and without much event. An occasional work day would pass, if gossip of a matched classmate was spread, but the library books were of very little help, because they were referred to as 'novels' by the librarian, but were only three hundred pages long, and wasn't an unconscious detection of hue common knowledge? Why must they be groundbreaking for the students who flaunted their worn covers in the classroom, when even the largest and stupidest of the lot already knew of what information filled those pages?

Nothing interesting, and little progress had been made. Wasteful.

When the time for Uni arrived, his expectations had been severely dwindled by blank professors. Fortunately, however, Cambridge was, Sherlock discovered, moderately entertaining, and indeed, the most effective time to explore colour, for that was when many began to see the veiled thing, and the population of desperately hormone-struck teenagers was lowered. His classmates bought colour televisions. The rose was now intoxicating, not for its flowering blossoms, nor its provocative scent that overcame the senses as romantics prayed for a fleeting impression, but for its redness. He had told Mrs. Clevit that rose was red, but it was only a description, human comparison, because of the, as he was informed, impossibility of definition; this was something which was confirmed by the upperclassman, but he did have a certain tendency to place the blame of his ignorance upon glaring inelegance and stupidity.

When he had explained this to Mycroft, in what he dramatically referred to as interrogation, the budding British Government had responded that his imperiousness was unbecoming, and that, brother dear, _don't speak of what you do not yet understand_. It was a bullet. But Sherlock knew his arrogance to be justified, and he heatedly retorted that it was no use, playing at the psychopath _when_ _you have apparently transcended my limited cognitive understanding._ Mycroft could see stains, and he smiled an unpleasant smile, but said nothing, and so Sherlock retreated to his both dormitories fuming and smugly satisfied that night.

The incident was not mentioned; Mycroft was a man in the shadows as Sherlock graduated, Cambridge, not Oxford. It seemed that he lived to be contrary.

Much to his parent's dismay, Sherlock held no real vision of where he would decidedly end up, though he was quite sure he wouldn't take to a more familial style, with a wife and children. As such, the heroin addiction was only expected, and he just wouldn't have had the proper time frame to conceal the drug, not when Lestrade was pounding around the flat. The detective was always suspicious, but the proof was insufficient, and by that time they both were already well enough acquainted with sarcastic comments and suspicion that incrimination really was no option.

(Still, in hindsight, it was probably best to have stashed the smack all away in the fake head of lettuce when he came calling; he would have gotten off, regardless, but there was no time for Mycroft's lectures, and police investigations were so terribly exciting.)

Little was provided when Lestrade came to offer him detective work, no pay, since the proposal was an illegal one; he had to scrape money through favours and odd jobs. But the work offered a high that seemed even unattainable by the alleyway meetings at night, when the lights had all gone. To _feel_ the raw essence of his own capacity, shaken in his bones, his very core at the adrenaline of the game. His mind, and the trembling dopamine surge, was overwhelming in the very least. The drug den had been very occasional before the police, but with the snooping eyes of Donovan, he could only let the habit die. Lestrade brought case files in often enough and soon the heroin had gone.

He managed crime solving: the violin-playing conductor to their orchestra. There was The Mortal Terror of Old Abrahams, the Laundry Affair, The Darlington Substitution Scandal, and, of course, The Politician, The Lighthouse, and The Trained Cormorant, to mention the more interesting mysteries of his violinist's experience. He was not always so lucky however, for most projects tended to involve illicit liaisons, vengeful murders, or a bored housewife. Nevertheless, Sherlock did remind himself that he must not forget the gems, jewels of crime, and there was always extra detail in the sitting room of his mind palace.

Years were not tangible, not in the calendars, but its effects were. Lestrade's hair grew dark and iron; his tanned face began to wrinkle. Ms. Hudson walked in an obviously slower manner, though she had by no means been fast, before. The sombre leaves twisted and fell in the autumn. The grass frosted at wintertime, and was reborn in brilliant shimmering shades of white and silver as spring ascended upon the world like a mother's warm breath.

It was almost repetitive, and when he met John Watson, he knew it had been best to leave the riding crop at the morgue. Wouldn't have wanted the wrong idea.

Of course he had been a soldier, the way he walked, limped, as his head was held high. The atmosphere had been expectant, yes, what with Mike smiling absurdly at the corner of the table, but he had no very high prospects, where this newcomer man was concerned. A tanning line at his neck. Hair, dark at its base, (paler where it regularly touched the sun) and short. Not striking, no predispositions to hold a threatening figure, not with a dominating purpose. And he was passive, patterned in plaid and apparently prone to wearing jumpers, dark, this time.

Banal. Commonplace. Sherlock paid him little heed.

He had stayed rather longer than was first intentioned, but there was still time. Watson hadn't squabbled, but whatever slim tad of pleasantness that might have donned his face had gone quickly. He was restless, shifted on his feet with a limp, a nervous habit, and it took him a few moments to speak when Sherlock had finished in his forthright dialogue. The brother seemed to be a sensitive topic, for an army man.

After all, there were marks on his phone, _x's_ —he was stubborn; the brother was bitter. The wife was only an extra player on the board, but pawns were important as well, contrary to popular belief. Mediums, but who played black and who played white was unimportant, because Sherlock knew that even in alleged colour the pieces were never red.

Perhaps his departure hadn't quite been the best means of ending the first meeting with a potential flatmate, but he did love those astonished expressions and speechless tongues. He told Watson the address, and the door shut on its own on his way out.

Hours passed swiftly; the sky darkened a fractional amount; the clouds passed in subtle movements. Seven o' clock arrived, and he was meticulous in his timing. The surgeon would be there, surely, he would express curiosity and certain words would require to be exchanged. That always happened with people when they were left on hooks.

True to his prediction, Watson was at the front door to 221B, the pallid lettering glimmering dully in the sunshine.

"Hello," said Sherlock, climbing from the seat of his stopped taxi. He had already moved to pay the man at the car window, and he could only just see Watson from the corner of his eye.

John turned, and stepped slightly away from the entry. "Oh, Mr. Holmes—"

"Call me Sherlock, please…"

Watson reached out his arm, and it was the handshake that did it, Sherlock was certain now—for when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains _,_ however improbable, must be the truth.

He had no time to comprehend the catalogued blandness of the street when the world exploded in hue. John wore no gloves: his hands were careful, strong, a surgeon's, yes, but he had already known—he hadn't, however, realised their…pink. And their transparent blue, veins, a network of arteries and blood and life, and he couldn't understand why, (maybe the information was engraved by the whispers of what snowy skin was meant to be when he had been left alone in perceptions of black and white) but the names of those foreign sights came to him like being a baby-swaddled form against his parent's chests.

Red, (yes, realised Sherlock in a panic; this was red) indirect in his vision, right-hand side, but now he could _see_. His eyes found the most convenient thing that could be drunk. John. Yellow hair, blonde hair, the old grey like pools within _straw._ Teal eyes, dulled and tired from the war, and this was something that had to be observed, for the sake of his sanity in those short two seconds between them where the world had turned on its head.

John did not react. Panic throbbed at his fingertips, but he couldn't allow himself to show signs of the miraculousness of this _thing._

He hadn't touched his skin. It was only black material, not dark. It was black.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the indescribability of colour.


End file.
